


That Awkward Moment When...

by trashyfiction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:23:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashyfiction/pseuds/trashyfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That awkward moment when, oh hell, sex is just fucking awkward. Comedic little Johnlock piece. Cue snark, sexytimes, and awkwardness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Awkward Moment When...

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing but my dirty, dirty mind.  
> The title is kind of a work in progress, if you have suggestions, please feel free to leave a comment. Enjoy!
> 
> Also, a bazillion thanks to my beta, who is also my roommate and [LittleLock](codenamecheshire.tumblr.com)!!!

They'd both known it was coming ever since that night at the pool, surrounded by semtex and madmen, and the strong possibility of quite a bit of not good. Of course, aside from complaining about Sherlock ripping his clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, neither of them said anything. Not then. John's superficial indifference could remain intact a little longer.

Nevertheless, they'd been dancing around it for weeks now, and the whole blasted business with Irene Adler had finally brought it to a head. Or at least given the great, proud, Sherlock Holmes enough plausible deniability of his weakness to broach the subject. He brought it up one afternoon in typical Sherlockian form, with high tact and finesse. 

“John, I've decided that in the interest of gaining a more complete knowledge of human interaction, I need to seduce you.”

John inhaled his mouthful of tea, and his eyebrows tried vainly to hide in his hair. He pinched his nose against the earl grey rising in his sinuses, and choked out a _“What?”_

“Sex, John! I'm being 'indelicate.' Do try to keep up!” the detective burst out, curling his fingers into sarcastic little quotation marks and rolling his eyes in dramatic exasperation.

John opened his mouth, then closed it again in a frown, and blew air out his nostrils. He knew Sherlock well enough not to have expected romance but, for fuck's sake, this was just ridiculous. “Mm, word of advice then, mate. Normally, people like a bit of, you know, flirting or easing into it before you out and  _proposition_ them. That's why it's called seduction.”

Sherlock frowned. “But that's silly. If intercourse is the mutually desired result of the exchange, why bother pussyfooting around?” He paused and ticked his head to the side before continuing a little more hesitantly, “And did you just imply that you're willing?”

John felt his cheeks flush and he forced himself to speak clearly. “Ah, y-yes. I did.”

Sherlock grinned and leapt from his armchair. “Wonderful! Absolutely brilliant! I'll get started at once!” And, with that, he was up and prancing out of the room. John heard Sherlock slamming his bedroom door and shook his head.

000

The next morning John was fishing his toast out of the toaster when Sherlock entered the kitchen looking smug. Neither of them said anything for a moment. Finally John broke down and tried for normalcy. “Good morning. Shall I put the kettle on for you?” 

Sherlock ignored both the question and the greeting and sidled over with a smirk. “John,” he said urgently, only a foot away, “John, I need a map.”

John's lips quirked to the side. “And what do you need a map for, Sherlock?”

“I need directions into your pants.”

John cringed. “You know what, let's start with dinner. Dinner's good. Dinner's simple.”

“But I'm not hungry, John! I'm aroused!”

“Sherlock,” John warned.

“Oh, all right.”

000

Dinner started out surprisingly smoothly. They went to Angelo's and Sherlock not only ordered himself a plate of food, but actually  _ate_ some of it, remembering to take a bite for every ten or so of John's. They had a normal (for them) conversation about the human liver in the fridge and Sherlock smiled slightly more often and gave John slightly less withering looks than usual. It was enough for John to almost think the worst was over—until they got to dessert. 

He had a spoonful of ridiculously decadent chocolate mousse halfway to his mouth when Sherlock abruptly went quiet for a moment before changing the subject. “John, how do you feel about the recreational use of alkyl nitrates?”

“Sorry?”

“Alkyl nitrates, poppers. I did some research and it seems they ease anal sex and are particularly helpful for inexperienced bottoms.” Sherlock clasped his hands on the table and looked at John with an expression of such innocence that it  _had_ to be intentional.

Typical, bloody typical. “So, you just assumed I'd be bottoming then?”

Sherlock rewarded him with his best please-do-try-not-to-be-such-a-glaring-moron face. “ _Obviously._ The tea, John? The jumpers? The modesty over shooting the cabbie? Don't tell me you don't see it.”

The good doctor counted to ten and let the air out through his nostrils slowly. “Obvious. Right. Why don't you go through it from the beginning for the rest of the class then, hmm?”

Sherlock's posture shifted minutely as he slipped into deduction mode. “You automatically assume responsibility for making my tea, and continue to do so even when I repeatedly don't bother to eat. This, in conjunction with your homey jumpers and persistent patience clearly indicates a deep seated instinct to nurture. Then we have the incident of the murderous cabbie. Your shooting him could initially be interpreted as a display of masculinity and dominance—machismo, if you will—but while not denying it, you never actually mentioned it to me, much less bragged about it. Of course, you didn't; why bother to show off as an alpha male when you'd already accepted my natural dominance over you?”

For about five seconds, John was sure he'd finally surpassed his ability to restrain himself and actually punched Sherlock in the face in public. Then he blinked, realized his fingernails were digging angry half moons into his palms, and forcibly unclenched his fists. “ _Not good,_ Sherlock,” he growled.

To his credit, Sherlock looked uncomfortable, and when he spoke his tone was suitably conciliatory. “Of course, we'll discuss the issue together before engaging in any actual intercourse.”

“Not in the middle of Angelo's we won't. I'm going to finish my dessert and then we're going to go home and talk about this like respectful, socially integrated adults.” 

000

By the time they returned to Baker Street, any lingering sense of deference Sherlock might have had from the restaurant was entirely used up. “I don't see why you're being so stubborn about this, there's nothing shameful about being the receiving partner. It is  _all fine_ , John.”

“Oh, of course, if that's the case, the great and logical Sherlock Holmes should have no problem 'receiving' then!”

“I have no theoretical objections to the position, obviously. But really, look at us! It would be ridiculous for me to be on the bottom!”

John crossed his arms and shot Sherlock a warning glare. “Ridiculous, really? And why would that be?”

His flatmate-cum-prospective-lover huffed like a defiant child. “Well, you must admit you're a great deal smaller than I.”

That did it; his patience was no more. “If anything, that's all the more reason for me to be on top! I don't fancy you're enormous cock tearing open my 'wee virginal arse,' all right!” John exploded. 

The detective had nothing to say to that and, in the silence, a flush crept up into his face. The pause stretched out and the two men stared at each other, breath heavy. “I would be very careful, John. You do know that? I have no desire to hurt you,” Sherlock said quietly. 

Somehow, with the actual act graphically out in the open, everything changed. They could argue about who'd be doing whom later. Right now, Sherlock was staring at him with barely parted lips, and kissing was much more important. 

When they mashed their mouths together it was too eager and a little messy, enthusiasm winning out over technique. Sherlock's lips slid wetly over John's and they pressed together, from chest to thighs, needing to feel as much of each other as possible. 

John felt his frustration with the maddening genius drain away to be replaced with a startlingly strong need to see him come undone. The detective was breathing in sharp, little gasps between kisses and when John pushed, backing him into the wall, he moved easily with the direction. John fastened his lips to that uncannily long neck and  _sucked_ , taking a mouthful of flesh between his teeth and nibbling until Sherlock cried out. 

“John—! But we haven't....agreed on positions yet,” he stuttered through his distraction. John lifted his hips, grinding his erection into his flatmate's. Sherlock let out a groan.

“Doesn't matter, not right now.”

“What're you—?” Sherlock began, but John cut him off efficiently with a tongue down his throat and a hand working his zip. The next moment left the detective's mouth bare as John dropped to his knees and lapped experimentally at the head of his cock. Sherlock managed a soft “oh” before John swallowed him as deeply as he could and started sucking enthusiastically. Sherlock yelped. “Teeth! W-watch your teeth!”

John stopped for a moment, trying to remember what the women he'd been with did to avoid unintentional scraping and biting. Hands. They used their hands. He wrapped his fingers around the base of Sherlock's erection and guided the head along the shallow U of his palate, laving his tongue along the underside of the shaft. Sherlock moaned and plastered his hands to the wall behind him to keep himself from sliding down it. 

God, that noise. John bobbed up and down with hollowed cheeks, needing to hear it again. His own cock leaked, neglected and straining against the fabric of his trousers. 

This was all wrong, he thought as he moved. It was fast, and clumsy and, oh hell, exactly how it always had to have happened. John's awareness hummed along on two parallel frequencies. On the one he simply felt, heat and need buzzing out from his prick to his ears to his toes. On the other he kept thinking,  _oh dear god, Sherlock's cock was in his mouth_ . He, John Watson, was  _sucking off_ the world's only consulting detective. It was bloody ridiculous, utterly and completely  _insane,_ and, oh god, Sherlock was about to come. And then he did, and John was all feeling—the world reduced to the convulsive, sympathetic twitch of his cock and the taste and weight of Sherlock's seed on the back of his throat.

Then the moment passed and he sputtered, just managing to swallow without coughing too embarrassingly. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on Sherlock's thigh and closing his eyes.

“God, John. That was, god, that was g-good.” Sherlock's voice was ragged and he slid down the wall to join John on the floor, eyes running over his face and mouth, lazily fascinated. His gaze traveled down John's body to the bulge still very much alive and thriving in his jeans but, before he could suggest they do something about it, there came a sharp pounding at the door.

“Open up, Sherlock!” Lestrade shouted through the door. “I know you're in there and  _you_ know the drill!”

The two men shared a brief moment of panic before simultaneously leaping up and hurrying to make themselves presentable. Sherlock tucked himself back into his trousers and ran a hand through his hair before going to let Lestrade into the flat. John went and sat on the couch, legs conveniently crossed.

Most of the familiar faces from Scotland Yard filed in behind the Detective Inspector, who glared at Sherlock.

“I can't see the point of these repeated drug busts; you'll never find anything.” Sherlock scowled.

“Maybe not. But it's a wonderfully convenient excuse to retrieve Mr. Sterling's liver before his family sues us into next Tuesday.”

Sherlock instantly snapped out if his passive petulance and into action. “No! You can't have it! I'm in the middle of a very important and sensitive experiment, and there's no telling when I'll get the opportunity to replicate the conditions!”

“I'm afraid the law takes precedence over science. And taking organs from non organ-donors counts as body snatching.”

“Nothing takes precedence over science!” Sherlock retorted scornfully before drawling on, “and don't be ridiculous. It's just one liver that no one will miss, not even most of a body, much less a whole one, so calling it body snatching is a bit hyperbolic, don't you think?” Lestrade just shook his head and continued to oversee the systematic overturning of the flat. 

Later, after the Met had collected the liver and made enough of a mess to satisfy Sherlock's 'admirers' and justify the drug bust, both John and Sherlock were more frustrated and irritable than anything else. They went to bed separately, neither directly addressing nor ignoring the new development in their physical relationship.

000

The next morning was another matter all together. John awoke to riotous black curls and pale eyes about a foot from his own, watching him impatiently. “Bloody hell, Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to wake up, obviously—which you now have. How do you feel about your masculinity?”

“My  _what?_ ”

“Oh, repetition is so dull, John. You heard me just fine.”

The doctor took one of his increasingly frequent, patience-of-a-bloody-saint, deep breaths. “Alright, clarify it for me: why exactly are you asking me about my masculinity at,” he glanced at the clock, “half six in the morning?”

“I'm not; that would be entirely unnecessary.  _I'm_ perfectly aware of your masculinity. I'm asking you how  _you_ feel about it.”

John blinked expectantly.

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “I'm asking you if last night was useful. Have you sufficiently reestablished your own sense of your masculinity to revisit our earlier topic of discussion?”

“This is a first. I don't think you've ever made me want to punch you in the face quite so early in the morning.”

“Still at it then, I see. Tell me when you're comfortable enough for us to proceed.”

Another deep breath. “I know I'm going to regret asking you to explain this to me, but what exactly about last night makes you think I'm doubting my manhood?”

“Oh come on, John. It's plain as day. Let's recap, shall we? First, there was the discussion of sexual dominance, then your admission of your own anxiety at the thought of receiving, and finally, the aggressive sexual encounter initiated and wholly controlled by _you_. Clearly, you were proving your ability to play the dominant role—which has been socially coded as male and is therefore tied to your manly pride. Did. It. Work?”

“Gee, I dunno, Sherlock. I'm getting the strangest urge to do it again.” They held each other's gaze for just longer than a second before John shifted, moving quickly to flip them and pin his infuriating, mad flatmate to the bed. He leaned in, holding his lips just centimeters away from Sherlock's. “You might be smart, Sherlock Holmes, you might be a bloody genius, but that doesn't mean you aren't completely transparent sometimes.”

The detective raised his head up off the bed, trying to capture John's lips in a kiss, but the doctor pulled just out of reach. “No. This is about me proving dominance, remember? That means I decide how much to give you and when. And before you can kiss me, you have to listen. You said the thought of bottoming makes me nervous. And you were right. I've never done it before and I have a hard time imagining it wouldn't hurt like hell so, yeah, it scares me. But you're just as bad. You slipped last night, with that silly comment about being bigger than me. You wouldn't make such a desperate argument if you weren't emotionally invested in the result. You've been trying way too hard to convince me to let you be on top. Admit it. You're scared, too.”

Sherlock's eyes darted over his face, entranced. He tried leaning up again but John wasn't having any of it. “Ah, ah, ah. You're not getting off that easily. We can't talk about this until we're both being honest. Which means admitting that you're scared.”

The silence held for a tense minute before Sherlock huffed and looked slightly off to the side. “Fine. I might harbor some small apprehension about the idea. Perfectly natural.”

A sweet smile spread over John Watson's face and he lowered his head to suck Sherlock's lower lip into his mouth. “See? That wasn't so hard,” he murmured before returning to the kiss, exploring the other man's mouth languidly. “In fact,” he pulled back just far enough to whisper against Sherlock's lips, “I've decided to take pity on you. We're both nervous but, while I haven't done  _this_ before, I do have more experience in the general arena than you do. So, for the first time, you can be on top. But when, if we do it again, well, we can renegotiate things then.”

“Really?” Sherlock's face lit up excitedly.

The corner of John's mouth twitched up, “Yes, really.”

There was a pause, then a hopeful “Now?”

John angled his hips down, grinding his erection against Sherlock's and letting out a noise that was half chuckle and half moan. “Yeah, now.”

000

Sherlock, it seemed, was well aware that proper anal sex required lube. What he was not aware of was the fact that simply having said lube did not ensure a smooth experience. 

“Hold still, John!” The doctor was spread out on his stomach, knees slightly bent, raising his arse in the air as Sherlock knelt behind him, spreading his cheeks and  _staring_ . 

“Kind of hard to hold still when you're poking and prodding at me like a med student on his first rotation!” As if to punctuate that thought, Sherlock pushed his slicked forefinger into the pucker of John's arse, causing him to yelp when it met with resistance. “Careful!”

“I'm trying but you keep moving! And you're all tense!”

John stilled and waited patiently while his virginal flatmate tried vainly to get the right angle and combination of slide and pressure to slip comfortably into him and start stretching. Finally, he had enough and turned over and sat up. “Sherlock, you're going about this all wrong.” The detective opened his mouth to protest then thought better of it and looked sheepish. John continued, “You have to do it slow, feel it out, tease a bit. Here, let me try, we'll see what works then you can give it another go.” He leaned over to kiss Sherlock, guiding him to lie back on the bed and stroking his hips and thighs. Without breaking the kiss, John felt around for the bottle of lube, maneuvered the top open, and squirted a little into his palm. He slicked his hand and began kissing down Sherlock's neck and torso, pausing to pay attention to his nipples then proceeding downwards to lap at his navel and nibble at his hip bones before coaxing him to shift onto his side. 

John reached between Sherlock's legs to trace a line from the tip of his cock, down the underside of the shaft, over the seam of his balls, and along his perineum. The detective whimpered, and arched back into the touch. John planted open mouth kisses on the back of Sherlock's neck and shoulders and continued drawing patterns over his cock and balls, slowly moving to focus further and further back. Sherlock's whimpers got progressively louder and, by the time John was rubbing circles over his opening, they'd become outright moans. The doctor shifted down on the bed until he was level with his lover's arse and replaced his fingers with his tongue, teasing around the tight ring of muscle, and pressing to dip into it slightly. Sherlock gasped and writhed. “God, John!”

Soon, those surgeon's fingers were rejoining the tongue and Sherlock unconsciously pushed back into the sensation, causing one of those fingers to slide into him up to the second knuckle. A breathy moan escaped his chest and his prick twitched. John slipped his finger a little deeper and pressed it forward to rub Sherlock's prostate, making him gasp and groan. 

“See?” John asked, his voice rough with lust and sounding just the tiniest bit smug, “that's how you do it. Now, if you want to give it a try...” He started to pull his finger out, but Sherlock reached around to catch his hand.

“No!” he shouted, taking John by surprise, then backtracked. “I mean, don't stop. Oh, god, don't stop.” 

So he didn't. He moved his finger in and out of Sherlock, dragging against that perfect spot each time, driving the man crazy. Then John added another finger, and a bit of a twist to the rhythm, and his partner was panting and slipping into incoherencies. 

And, oh god, was he a sight. Sweat sticking his curls to his forehead, cheeks flushed red against his normal pallor, that mouth hanging open in something in between a pant and a moan. Suddenly, John was very aware of his own arousal, and specifically that he  _really_ needed to be inside Sherlock. As close to now as possible. But he'd promised to let Sherlock top.... Maybe if he asked really nicely....

He fit a third finger in, opening Sherlock wide and driving insistently against his prostrate with each thrust. “Sherlock?” he huffed, “Can I? I know I said...oh god, but I need to be inside you.”

Sherlock bucked back against John's hand, toes curling. “Yes!” he groaned.

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, for god's sake, yes! Just put it in me! Now, please!”

“Ok, flip onto your back. I want to see you.” Sherlock flipped and John snatched a condom from the bedside table, rolling it on efficiently and adding an extra squirt of lube for good measure. 

And then he was kneeling between Sherlock's splayed thighs, and, oh god, it was impossible for them to be so white and still radiate such heat, and he was hooking them over his shoulders and pushing the head of his cock into— _fuck yes!_ Sherlock's asshole could evaporate honey...

For a moment John stayed completely still inside him, face pressed into the crook of Sherlock's neck, steeling himself against that first rush of intense pleasure. When he was sure he could move without coming he began to rock slowly, surprising himself with a weak, liquid whimper that could not possibly have originated from his own vocal cords. He was in the middle of fucking his flatmate, goddamnit, ' _plundering his virgin hole,_ ' and all that; womanish whimpers were hardly befitting the situation. At least not coming from him they weren't. Then Sherlock clenched his stomach and lifted his hips, pushing back into John's careful thrusts, and he abruptly forgot to care about the embarrassing noises tearing from his chest. It was all he could do to maintain a steady rhythm. 

Sherlock moved beneath him like a wanton thing, writhing and keening unselfconsciously—and  _hell—_ but wasn't it pretty. John brought his hands up to Sherlock's face, pressing his thumbs into his temples while grabbing hold of those snaky, black curls. There was something there in the slivers of iris showing through his lidded eyes, something brand new. John Watson knew Sherlock better than the detective would ever admit and he had an impressive mental catalogue of different looks those impossible eyes could have. For instance, John was well acquainted with the pale darting that meant he was flicking through a thousand mental options simultaneously and he knew the slow narrowing that signaled Sherlock's confusion just before realizing that, yes, everyone else really was  _that_ stupid and hadn't yet grasped the obvious. He recognized the mostly-suppressed crinkle they got when someone stroked Sherlock's ego (usually John, forgetting to keep his exclamations of 'fantastic!' and 'bloody brilliant!' to himself). And he definitely knew the frantic dance of roll-and-settle that happened when he was bored. But the expression he saw now, painted green-grey and nearly blacked out with blown pupils, was entirely new and, if he didn't know better, he'd think that, for once, Sherlock Holmes had actually done the impossible and stopped thinking. 

“ _John!_ ” he moaned, snapping the doctor away from more florid trains of thought, and back into the present. “John, oh god,  _harder!_ ” Oh, that was evil. He was hedonism and filth and perfect calculation in complete abandon and John didn't stand a chance against him. 

And that was truly the end of rational thought for either party. They threw themselves even further into the quick slip and drag of flesh against hot flesh and it wasn't long before John felt his pleasure coil and wind in his balls, ticking towards inevitable release. He reached his hand down to wrap around Sherlock's heavy erection and began stroking in time with his thrusts. He was rewarded with a groan and an exquisite wrinkling just between Sherlock's brows, not to mention a renewal of the already frenetic pace Sherlock had set with his hips. Here John was, supposedly doing the heavy lifting, but god, the man must have a stomach and thighs of steel to be pushing back against him with that kind of force and speed. “Fuck,  _Sherlock!_ ” he panted, “God, I'm so close. Oh, come for me, I need to see you.”

At that, Sherlock stretched his neck up to capture John's mouth in a breathless kiss and began fucking into his fist even faster than before until he seized, clenching obscenely around John's prick, and sending him crashing over the edge close behind. They pulsed together for what had to be days, skin crawling with electricity and a great deal of oh so very, very good until they both collapsed into a boneless heap. 

Sherlock, unsurprisingly, regained some of his senses first, fidgeting John off of him and stretching out over the bed like a great, debauched starfish. After a few moments he squirmed and turned over onto his stomach, just as spread out, one arm thrown recklessly over John's chest. “John,” his voice came out muffled from where his face was smooshed sideways into a stray pillow, “I ought to let you know that my motivations in this are no longer strictly altruistic and in the pursuit of science. I'd quite like to repeat this experience, and variations thereof, as frequently as possible, for purely selfish reasons. I hope that's not awkward.”

John started to laugh, a slow chuckle at first that got away from him and turned into drawn-out, gasping giggle. He gulped for air and curled over onto his side, hooking a thigh over the small of Sherlock's back and pulling him in for a squeeze. “Sherlock, everything you've done in the past couple days has been so awkward it's unreal. Wanting to have sex again  _because you like it_ is pretty safe.”

“Oh, good.” And with that Sherlock, drifted off, leaving his flatmate to puzzle over him and think that maybe, somehow, he was just the tiniest bit besotted with the madman.


End file.
